Letters of a Down-and-Out

Wednesday, May 8.
From Mr. Malone, not Maloney, this morning I secured the job of timekeeper at Camp 26A. He and I walk up to-morrow. This has been a day of idleness, devoted chiefly to talking with the different men sitting around the so-called hotel. Men here have been pretty much all over the world, the greater part in search of gold. A few have struck it, but like most gambling money, they blew it in in short order. Had a nap this afternoon and caught cold.

Thursday, May 9.
Left Seeley with Mr. Malone at eight o’clock. It seemed good to be walking without a pack. Mine I left at the warehouse, and it will reach camp by the first freight team that goes in to our camp. Reached New Hazelton about ten, and after a few moments in the general office started once more up river, this time the Buckley, a branch of the Skeena, the Skeena going north by north-east, while the Buckley follows an easterly direction. Walked steadily until noon, reaching Duncan Ross’s camp just at dinner-time. He is working on the longest tunnel on the road.
Resuming our mush at one, reached Camp 26A at three o’clock, and as I had developed a bird of a headache, I for one was glad the trip was over.
Camp 26A is not very large, only fifty-odd men being on the job; it’s a cut-and-fill proposition. The old timekeeper was overjoyed to see me; it seems he is captain of the New Hazelton baseball team and that they play Old Hazelton on Sunday. About two hours finished my instructions, and as the books are quite simple I do not anticipate any great trouble with the work.

Friday, May 10.
Spent the day in checking up my predecessor’s work. Had an old-fashioned headache in the night which I thought would kill me. Coffee every half hour is keeping me going, and, by the way, is the best that I’ve had since I was in New York. The cook is a good one, but has n’t a great deal to work with. Of course, the further from the base of supplies, the simpler the food must be. It’s beef, potatoes, coffee, and tea three times a day, and very little besides.

Saturday, May 11.
Married twelve years ago to-day. ‘ Tempus fugit.’
Have completely checked up my accounts. Everything O.K. except cash, which is 50 cents short. Looked over the job carefully. It reminds me a good deal of coal-mining.
It’s a great relief to get a decent place to sleep. The office, occupied by the Foreman and myself, is a small (15 x 15) log cabin, but clean, with two very decent bunks, and one gets some air at night. A camp stove in the middle of the room gives a welcome glow in the morning as, though it is very warm in the middle of the day, ice still forms at night. Mosquitoes awful. I would swear some of them have an over-all spread of wings of at least an inch and a half.

Sunday, May 12.
Spent a large part of the day in making shelves, etc., for my store stock. I have most everything for sale that a country store sells. Prices are something terrible; four candles for 25 cents, cake of soap 25 cents, towel $1, ordinary working shoes $8, socks 75 cents, three envelopes for 10 cents.
Also built myself an armchair, in which I sit as I write. First armchair I’ve sat in for seven weeks.

Monday, May 13.
Walked to Camp 26 this morning to get my pack which the teamster had left there by mistake. It is a walk of about two miles, with magnificent scenery and, way below my trail, the Buckley River flowing by swiftly. It is ‘White Water’ for miles, and above, the Cascades covered with snow. Very hot sun before I arrived back at camp. Shaved (needed it), and after dinner had a grand clean-up. Bath, clean clothes, and a hair-cut by the blacksmith.
On my tally (about three-thirty) I was a man out. Finally discovered that I had counted three Russian brothers as two. The three of them look identically alike.
To go back to the hair-cut, I needed it, as it was in early March when I had the last. I looked a good deal like the late Joe Jefferson when he played Rip Van Winkle. It’s getting pretty gray, and my eyesight is not what it was. Another sign I notice of increasing years is that I do not require near the sleep that I did.
I’m very much afraid of our watersupply, which comes from a small stream out of a swamp that our ‘fill’ is crossing. It’s full of wrigglers. The Foreman with scorn has granted my request for men to dig a well. Don’t like well water, but think that the chances of typhoid are less with that than with swamp water.

Tuesday, May 14.
Aside from my routine duties I have done a number of odd jobs to-day. Burned up a large amount of garbage which was much too near the office and the cook-house; collected this with a rake that I constructed. Had the Bull Cook (man-of-all-work) carry off about 4,000,000 empty tin cans. Mended the cook’s assembling table, and in the afternoon made a window in the back of the office, which was badly needed, both for light and ventilation. As the logs are about a foot and a half through, it was quite a job getting an auger through so I could use a saw. (No keysaw in camp.)
Number 30, a man who went to New Hazelton on Sunday, came in to-night with a pair of slippers that I had ordered. It surely is a change for the better to get boots off at night.

Wednesday, May 15.
The fine weather continues, but it has been excessively warm the last two days; of course, only in the middle of the day.
In addition to the routine work, I to-day finished up the well. I think it will be a great improvement over the present water-supply. It would rather seem as though from here out my life would be passive and rather in the rôle of spectator. Well, at any rate, I went at a fast and furious pace from 1898 to 1912. What a lot of work I did crowd in during those years! The —king of New England seemed to be in sight, and now I’m a petty clerk in the wilds of British Columbia. Truly, it’s a funny old world, but as a rule the sporting expression, ‘They never come back,’ I fancy, is a true one. I don’t suppose I ever will.
I think I’ll have to write an essay on sheets. With the exception of two nights in Prince Rupert I’ve gone without for almost two months, while I’ve slept in underclothes for three. Then again, washing one’s own clothes is an awful chore. I’d rather do a hard day’s work than tackle the Oil Can (the universal washing-tub of British Columbia being a ten-gallon Imperial Oil Company’s — Canadian branch of Standard — can). It raises the devil with the hands for hard work.
I presume the world wags much as usual, but we don’t know it. Days since I’ve seen a newspaper. I wish I had a Dog.

Thursday, May 16.
I’m tired to-night as I have had a long day. Up at 5.30 and it is now 9.30. (Plenty of light to write.) Books and checking up the men take but part of my day, so I have made a self-closing screen door, finished a drain for the cook-house, and washed and darned all my clothes. To-morrow I plan to dig a hole in the swamp for a bath-tub. Mr. Ward, Assistant General Superintendent for Farrington, Weeks & Stone, rode in at dinner-time to-day. He reported forest fires as serious below us.

Friday, May 17.
Another day gone. A change in the weather, cooler and showery. The snow on the mountains is going very fast. Regular work and a skylight that lifts for ventilation for the cook-house, is the record for the day. Punch, a fox terrier, who belongs to Camp 26, is a visitor; am told he stays two or three days. He is quite welcome. At the moment he occupies my new chair, drawn up in front of the camp stove, while I write on the side of my bunk.
One surely is in the wilderness in this country; it seems a million miles from the corner of Boylston and Tremont Streets.

Saturday, May 18.
Rained hard in the night. Camp has several bad leaks. Mr. Malone here this A.M., also the Chief Engineer of G. T. P. (on tour of inspection) dropped in for dinner. Very blue and lonesome this afternoon, caused no doubt by a severe cold that makes me feel mean all over.
Since March 11, 1910, I have seen my wife and son but once. I wonder when I’ll see them again? In a year or never. I wish I had some one to talk with. Have about exhausted the mental possibilities of the Foreman.

Sunday, May 19.
I believe it’s Sunday, but it’s almost a guess as we do not boast a calendar. Of course, keeping books, particularly Payroll Book, I always know the date, but one day in the week is like another in a railroad camp.
Nothing of interest. Feel mean and blue, with plenty of cold. Used up my entire supply of handkerchiefs.
I have the promise of a puppy from Camp 26. His father is Punch, the fox terrier that visited us. His mother is an Irish terrier. Will not bring him down until we get some condensed milk as he is not old enough for meat.
It’s curious how the laboring-man drifts in this country. There are fortyone of us in camp to-day, and since I’ve been there about fifteen have left, and about as many more gone to work.

Monday, May 20.
Overcast and raw. Fire in the stove makes the office cabin comfortable. My slippers are a great comfort. Guess they were a good investment, even if they did cost two days’ pay.
I wonder what the — bunch [a group that used to meet in the — Hotel in Boston] are doing to-day?

Sent a man to the Seeley Hospital yesterday afternoon. Think he had one broken bone in his right forearm.
Telephone-line man has just gone out after a five-minute chat. He is full of trouble, owing to the recent forest fires. It must be inconvenient for the head office in Hazelton not to be able to get their various camps.
Neuritis still bothering. Had a bath in a swamp-hole this afternoon. Blue and homesick for Beantown to-night. Gives one a funny feeling to go to bed night after night in broad daylight.

Tuesday, May 21.
Uneventful day. Heard by phone that Seeley Warehouse had tinned milk. This means in three days’ time we shall have milk for oatmeal and coffee. It will bo welcome as usual, as the camp has had none for six weeks. Have ordered a tent, thinking we (the Foreman and I) would be more comfortable than in our cabin. The middle of the days is very warm, it must get close to 90° in the sun, and the cabin, having a tar-paper roof, gets oppressive. The nights, however, are still cool. We have a fire morning and evening.

Wednesday, May 22.
Walked up to Camp 26 this morning to get detonators which the Seeley Warehouse failed to send us. We use about a hundred a day in the Gumbo (wet clay and dirt that is harder to break up with dynamite than rock). McCloud, the timekeeper, gave me my dog. I have named him Tony the Second.
Very warm this noon. The snow now only reaches a third of the way down the side of the mountains; the river, of course, is very high. It makes a constant roar as it passes through the canyon. Had I a camera I could get some wonderful pictures.

Thursday, May 23.
One day is much like another; war between nations, earthquakes, and famines might take place without our having any knowledge of them. It is peaceful and restful, but not highly exciting. Called the hospital at Seeley to find out how Doheny, the man hurt here, was getting on. The doctor reported a compound fracture, also paid me quite a compliment on my splints.
Tony the Second is quite amusing, and helps to pass some idle moments. Am anxious, of course, to go fishing, but am afraid that if I did it would be the moment that some superior officer dropped in to see how our work was getting on.

Friday, May 24.
Had two G. T. P. engineers and Mr. West for dinner. Busy all day putting up a tent for White and myself, thinking it would be more comfortable than the log cabin. Though it is 18 x 20 I am afraid it will be small, with bricks, stove, and all the commissary stuff. They have quite a stunt in this country: i.e., the lower edge of the wall of the tents is three or four feet off the ground, the space in between being boarded up. This, of course, gives more air and head-room.
As I write it is ten minutes before nine, yet the sun is still shining. Though the scene is grand as it sinks behind the snow-covered mountains, it, in my opinion, does not compare with the setting sun behind old Marblehead seen from the Neck.
H. D. P.

June 7, 1912.
DEAR—: —
Your very nice letter of May 22 reached me on Tuesday last. . . .
In many ways life with me at present is perfect; as you may remember, I always had a fondness for carpentermg and camping, and, as I am doing both at the present time, I presume I should be content.
I am sitting in the office tent, which I consider extremely comfortable (as every bit of it, with exception of putting up the ridge-pole, is my work). Two good bunks, one for the Foreman, and a mattress, a camp stove, big window, easy-chairs (I have built such an improvement on the Morris chair that, with the design, the Paine Furniture Company would wax wealthy on it alone). Desk, shelves for books and papers, and, on my right, shelves extending the extreme length of the tent (it is 20 X 16) for the commissary stuff. I keep what is practically a country store. Sell dynamite, sewing-thread, tobacco, quinine, shoes, writing-paper, postage-stamps, crowbars, etc., etc. We were in a log cabin which was within ten feet of the kitchen door of the cook-house, which, of course, meant the flies were awful. As I have the window screened and a screen door and a good tight board floor, we arc quite free from insects, but outside the black flies and mosquitoes are awful.
The balance of the camp is about half and half: cook-house, storehouse, and two bunk-houses made of logs; while the stable and the other two bunk-houses are made of canvas.
The weather is truly wonderful, not over an hour continuous rain during the month I’ve been here; perhaps a trifle too warm in the middle of the day, but cool enough for two heavy blankets at night. The scenery (which is the only free thing in the country) magnificent; as I look up from the paper and through the door, three mountains with snow extending perhaps a third of the way down, are directly in my vision. These belong to the Cascade Range, this camp being a considerable distance west of the Rocky Mountains.
The railroad grade follows the Buckley River, which is for mile after mile the fastest kind of fast water. I have been speculating whether or not one could run it in a canoe. If one did, it would be at the rate of a mile in two minutes.
The food is good, though you get the same thing day after day: beef and potatoes three times a day. (We use 2,000 lbs. of beef a week.) Apple pie for dinner and supper, while we have bacon and hot cakes every morning for breakfast.
The job is a cut-and-fill; the fill is simple, but the cut is going through what is known as Gumbo, a wet blue clay full of small round boulders from the size of a baseball to a football. It is quite impossible to pick the stuff to pieces, so it is shoot, shoot all the time, which, of course, makes slow work. There is nothing about the work that I have not done while coal-mining; so I have strongly recommended to the Assistant General Superintendent (visits us about once a week), that he make me foreman on a similar job; but to this writing, Messrs. Farrington, Weeks & Stone have not acted on my suggestion. Incidentally, F. W. & S. ought to make an awful killing on the G. T. P. work through B. C. The total contract is something over a hundred million, and they should net at least 20 per cent.
Camp foremen get one hundred and twenty-five dollars a month, which is a great improvement on the timekeeper’s sixty, so I want to be a foreman; I may be a trifle weak on shooting Gumbo, but I can give a lot of them cards and spades on track and dump-cars. The steel is supposed to reach us by September, but, in my opinion, we won’t have our job done before the first of October.
Outside of timekeeping and bookkeeping (the first trial balance I have taken in ten years came out O. K. The next, I suppose, will take a week), I have, as already stated, fixed the office tent, built two wells (one with an overflow is my bath-tub), put two glass skylights in the cook-house roof, built a new meat-house, repaired cars, and, as the blacksmith went off on a drunk, shod the mules.
I make a very long day; breakfast is at 6.15 and, as it does not get, dark until 10.30, I generally do not turn in until that time.
For the first time, yesterday, I took a couple of hours off. The fact is, I had made a fishing-rod, butt and second joint of white birch, and the tip of willow, used small copper wire for my rings, and, of course, lashings to fasten the joints. I went or rather dropped down to the Buckley (it’s some 500 feet below us in a canyon), took 22, between three o’clock and five, that weighed from a half to three pounds. The men called them salmon trout; they were shaped more like a land-locked salmon than a square-tail, but had red spots; very good eating.
We have (in the cut) gone through a seam of mother or bastard coal. I have no doubt that a true seam is in the near vicinity, but it means money to look for it.
We are, of course, very much ‘in the woods.’ F. W. & S. have a telephone line connecting their camps with headquarters in Seeley and New Hazelton, but as for news of the outside world, we get none. I have not seen a newspaper since I’ve been here, but nevertheless presume the Boston National Baseball Team is leading (?) the League.
In spite of the glowing advertisements, I consider the land worthless except for its timber; frost most every night, which puts it on the bum for farming, so no land for mine. From present indications, will be here till work is done and stay with F. W. & S. if they have a job for me at that time. As ever,
H. D. P.

July 10, 1912.
DEAR —.—
Here is a letter I will call ‘The Timekeeper’s Day’s Watch.’ It gives an average day.
The puppy bit my ear; I growled at him but he kept on, so I rolled over and looked at my watch: five minutes after five. As I had to get up anyway in a a few minutes, I rolled out of my blankets and made my toilet in about four minutes. If one in a moment of weakness lets a puppy on his bed one has to pay the penalty, and that, is let him sleep on the foot of the bed forever afterwards. The night cook (who also gets breakfast) gave me a cup of coffee, then out on the grade I went. First looked at the shovel score-board: 745 cars, a very good night’s run; then I went to the cut, where I found they had taken out 184 cars; pretty good all around. Bosses reported three men only stopped work at midnight. The getting-up gong had already rung when I was once more back in camp, and the men were tumbling out of the tents and bunk-houses. Pretty frowsy-looking lot they were, but cold water helped. At six I took my customary station beside the entrance of the mess-house, the cook rang the gong, and the men filed in.
My tent was quite comfortable when I went in, as I had lit the fire on getting up. Fancy a fire in the middle of July; but the ground was white with frost. To the mess-house for breakfast, and pretty good it was, too: oatmeal and cream (condensed), beefsteak, fried potatoes, tea and coffee, bread, jam, and that invariable breakfast adjunct (to railroad work), hot cakes. This morning, for a wonder, no one tried to go past me who was not working in the camp.
As a rule there are three or four every morning, stragglers going up or down the line. All of them have a delightful habit of trying to eat on the company; they know perfectly well they should go to the office and buy meal-tickets (fifty cents apiece), but they all try to eat for nothing. The most effervescent cursing is answered by a smile and ' Me no understand.’
After breakfast quite a few came in to make purchases from the commissary; mostly tobacco, which sells for three times as much as in the East. For instance, Bull Durham, a great favorite, at fifteen against five cents.
Four men of the night crew wanted their time, so I cast up their accounts, subtracting their board, commissary account, and medical fees, made out their time-checks, and took their receipts. Next, the men’s time for the night-shift went on the time book. Then the sales of the day before. After perhaps a half hour’s work on the books, the cook came for the daily supplies. From the storehouse he took 200 pounds potatoes, 200 pounds white flour, a case of corn, 3 of tomatoes, 2 of milk, 2 of peas, and 80 pounds of cheese, 24 tins of jam, 4 boxes of macaroni, a box of prunes, figs, and dried apples. Then from the meat-house, one hind quarter of beef. Quite a lot of stuff, but it takes a lot of grub to feed 175 men. In the next hour and a half while working on last month’s cook-house report, I went to the supply storehouse five different times—for waste oil, track spikes, and axe and saw and shovels. Also answered the telephone five times. Each trip meant a separate entry in the day book, as all supplies and materials are carried in separate ledger accounts, debited when received, and credited when used. (Trial Balance for July showed a total on either side of well over $200,000).
I looked at my watch—ten o’clock.
I should have been out on the work a half-hour ago. Checking up 175 men with an average of 15 new faces a day is quite an undertaking: one has to train the mind to remember faces, on the second, and in any event the third sight. Our work extending over a mile, it takes an hour and a quarter to go over and find all the men. To-day all hands, excepting four, were out; on my return to camp I hunted these up. Three were sick; these I dosed with quinine; and the other one was laying-off. The men (it seems as though we had at least one representative of every nationality under the sun) are like children about medicine, but, owing to successfully putting a man’s broken forearm in splints last May, I’ve quite a reputation as a doctor. My two remedies are quinine and plenty of black pills.
This being done I made up two loads of freight for our wagons. Our base of supplies is at Seeley, sixteen miles down river and at the head of steamboat navigation. Owing to the poor roads a load for four horses is 4800 to 5000 pounds. A little of everything in the 10,000 pounds, from 60 per cent dynamite to smoking tobacco, from canned tomatoes to Perry Davis’s Pain-Killer. Dinner-time caught three strangers at the door, and I explained that Mr. Farrington (he is, I believe, rated at $40,000) needed fifty cents from each of them in the worst sort of way. Then a brisk sale of commissary goods, up to one o’clock, when the men again went out. Right after one, had to go to the powder-house and check out powder for the powder boss. The material we are taking out requires constant shooting. Then the cook came; he had forgotten two things he wanted for the night cook. Then a fifteen minute conversation on the telephone with the General Superintendent, who wanted some detailed information.
Next, my one luxury of the day: walked down river three quarters of a mile where our pump (water for shovel) is located. The pump-man, owing to my tears, has rigged up a very good shower-bath. I started as hot as I could stand it and ended with the water directly from the spring. On the way back took the time for the afternoon. Just four when I was once more in my office; got in a solid hour of work on reports when the interruptions started. The night men began coming in, buying tobacco, snuff (up to this my knowledge of snuff was so limited I had supposed it was wholly a habit of the past; I sell fifty pounds a month), socks, etc., etc. And then, mirabile dictu, two Sisters of Charity appeared, escorted by Duncan Ross (big tunnel camp). They, it seems, are collecting money for an Orphan Home in New Westminster, a suburb of Vancouver. They showed me a list of the boys in the Home, and one is named Henry D. P. I had already given them a dollar, now gave them another, with the request that they buy some little toy for Henry. I entertained them while the men ate supper; as soon as they were through, I, accompanied by the nuns, ‘ Bally - hooed ’ through camp for them. We did pretty well, I think: collected $57.25. I arranged over the telephone for them to pass the night at Camp 26, but as four G. T. P. Railway engineers (civil) were spending the night there, they had no spare blankets, so I rolled up four and with the nuns’ modest baggage as the balance of a pack, we started to mush (i. e. walk with a pack), turning them over to John McCloud, and after three or fou r Godblessings started back.
Found the cook had saved me a bit to eat (it was after nine), which was welcome. After eating, once more out on the grade, taking the time, then back to the office; as a rule finish up work by daylight, but after ten have to use a light. Made up the daily report (much detail) and then to bed, ten after eleven. Nothing to do until tomorrow.

CAMP 26A, August 18, 1012.
MY DEAR—: —
. . . Now a bit about myself. I am more or less contented with my lot; I am almost literally out-of-doors all the time (have n’t worn, in fact don’t own, a hat for three months) — a good bed, and plenty of good plain food. Feel very fit, due no doubt to good air, lots of sleep, a moderate amount of exercise, and no rum. But as far as attaining money or position, I can’t see it. As a matter of fact, neither exists in the country.
Railroad contracting, like everything else nowadays, is on an enormous scale, and it takes tremendous capital to butt into the game. F. W. & S. are supposed to be worth $50,000,000, and quite a bit of it must be in use here in B. C. To show you the magnitude of their business, I am told on unquestionable authority that they cleaned up over $1,000,000 on the first 100 miles of the G. T. P. (Prince Rupert East), and that the whole job will net them in the vicinity of $20,000,000.
Now, considering the fact that members of the firm have inspected the work but twice in six months, you would think their headmen on the job would be high-price men, but they are not. Mr.—, their financial man, and Mr. —, the General Superintendent, get but $6000 a year. There are numerous sub-contractors below and above us, but they seem to be all uncles, cousins, and aunts of members of the firm, and the — see to it that they make but a living. You see, one of the principal sources of income to F. W. & S. are supplies, from pins to dynamite, potatoes to steam-shovels; and as they operate all over the world, they do a grocery business that would make S. S. Pierce green with envy; and all sub-contractors bind themselves to take all supplies from them. Of course, very often, they could not possibly get them elsewhere. If it seems that a sub is making too much money, up goes the price of all the stuff going in to him. So you can see that a decent job with F. W. & S., and sub-contracting, are not inviting.
Outside of building the railroad, there is mighty little. The country from either an agricultural standpoint or lumbering is n’t worth a tinker’s damn, in spite of what you read. We have had frosts so heavy for the past three nights that nothing like, for instance, potatoes, could possibly stand. There does seem to be a lot of Galena hereabouts, but it takes money to go prospecting; if I had the price I would take a whack at it next year sure. But it would cost $2000 to make the trip I have in mind, way north of the Peace River. To a $75 a month clerk, $2000 is a fortune; perhaps you would like to grub-stake such an expedition. The remaining chance is the fish business (when the road is through, Prince Rupert ought to ship large quantities of cod, salmon, and halibut East).
I don’t dare to return either to semior full civilization without a job in sight or some money. The few dollars I’ve earned would barely buy me a suit of clothes. (I have n’t even a coat to my name.) If I had a few dollars I believe I would try it, but, of course, it’s out of the question to-day, and yet as this job will be (for me) through by October 1st at the latest, and as F. W. & S. may not have anything for me, I may be driven to it. When I started on this line I wrote, contented; of course I fully realize that a man going on to thirty-seven should be at about his best, and if I either had ability, or have any left, it is being wasted here in the woods; but, having studied the situation from every angle, I can’t see any way out. I don’t want to go hungry again and to be frank I’m afraid to tackle town-life again without either the above-mentioned job or money to get along on until something turns up.
Am on a ‘writing basis’ with — now. My son J— is at B— and has caught his first fish. Were I there to show him how, and teach him to swim!
As ever, old fellow,
H. D. P.
P. S. Am catching you on the gray hairs pretty fast.

August 24, 1912.
MY dear—: —
Your very nice letter of the 8th reached me yesterday. Yes, I agree, my life for fifteen years or thereabouts has been very much out of the ordinary. What a lot of work, play, dissipation, pleasure, and so forth, I’ve crowded into the time since I left Boston on ‘the good ship Hopedale’ to Timekeeper for F. W. & S., Camp 26A, British Columbia. Of late I have wondered just how ‘cracked’ I am. Presume more rather than less, but you see I’ve been through some pretty tough experiences and they have left marks and effects.
I have been very blue and lonely the past week. It’s rather hard not to ever see one’s son and little daughter and to be completely cut off from every one you know. It does seem an awful waste to lead the life I am leading now, if I have it left in me to do things again. As I wrote you a few days ago, I can’t see much ahead, and yet, for the reasons I’ve explained, I really don’t care to make a move. However, another thirty days will see the job (Camp26A) done, and then if F. W. & S. have nothing to offer I ’ll have to do something. . . . As I have cut my right thumb just where you hold pen or pencil, this must be a short note. As ever,
H. D. P.

Saturday, September 20, 1912.
DEAR—: —
Life with me goes on about the same; our work is so near through, our camp has dwindled down to sixty men; the steel is only thirteen miles below us now and, when the wind is fair, we can hear the locomotive. This I rather resent, as it means civilization and that is something which, without clothes and position, I positively dread.
After a spell of bad weather we are now enjoying the most beautiful Indian summer that I have ever seen. The weather is glorious beyond words; nights sharp, but warm enough from 8.30 till 5 in the afternoon to go without a coat (that is, down to a flannel shirt). The foliage is very fine and its background, the snow-covered mountain, marvelous.
F. W. & S. have made no sign that they wish my valuable services? After this job is over, if they don’t, I plan to mush (i. e., walk or hike) through the mountains to Fort George which, from present indications, should in time become quite a town. Eventually, the C. P. R., the C. U. R., and the S. T. R. will reach it. If we do not have too much snow it should prove a wonderful trip. Will go very light; two blankets, bacon, flour, coffee, and a rifle. (Of course a few flies for trout.)
Besides Tony Christo del Monte Monks, Jerry, a dog ex Camp 26, has adopted me. He is a most interesting beast; from Pete Seymour, a Siwash Indian, from whom I buy salmon (3 cents a lb. delivered, dressed in camp, the only cheap thing in the country), I have learned his history. As is the custom, his mother was tied out in the woods when in heat two falls ago; the timber wolves roaming about found her and, after paying their respects, were shot by Pete. It seems that if they were not shot or driven off they would ultimately kill her. Curious!
Jerry is now about a year and a half old and must weigh about 150 pounds. He looks more like a wolf than a dog, and is the queerest combination of bravery and timidity possible. He will tackle a bear in a minute, but if something drops behind him he will put his tail between his legs and run like the veriest cur. Very, very difficult to obtain his confidence, but once obtained he is my shadow; even when at table he insists upon having his head in my lap. He looks so like a wolf a short distance away, I am greatly afraid some prospector will, shoot him.
His sleep is most incredibly light, a field-mouse will bring him to his feet in a second and, unlike a dog, when on his feet, he is wide awake. He won’t play with any one except me, and not with me if there is any one in sight. Some weeks ago I used a curry-comb on him, and now a regular morning performance is his going to the stable and barking for me to come. And the most curious sound: it is not like a regular dog’s bark at all! For a week past we have had a band of wolves around camp and Jerry evidently has spent three or four nights with them. Their nightly howling is evidently too much for him to stand. Apparently he wants to get out with the bunch. As ever,
H. D. P.

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